Chapter 6 The Filth I Belong To #3
She crawled back into my lap and peeled open my shirt as if she were unwrapping something precious, then bent down until her lips brushed my chest.
I grabbed her hair, yanked her back.
“Did I tell you to do that?”
She winced but kept smiling.
“No, baby.”
“Then don’t.”
I shoved her down between my legs.
“Put that mouth to use or fuck off.”
She knelt like a good little toy. Pulled me out with both hands, rubbed her cheek along my length before taking me between her lips with a little hum.
Her head bobbed slow at first, then faster—eager to please. Her hands wrapped around the base, squeezing like she could wring something real from me.
But there was nothing real here.
And yet, I let it happen. Let it numb the edge. Let it mock everything I actually wanted.
I stared right over her head, into the mess—girls on all fours, men with drinks in one hand and cocks in the other. A fucking zoo. Across the room, Pakhan watched me like he’d just won. Like this was proof I was his. Fucking degenerate.
I closed my eyes and let her mouth work while my mind checked out completely. She could’ve been choking or moaning or crying—I wouldn’t have noticed. I’d already gone still inside.
This is who I’ve been for a long fucking time.
I was fourteen my first time. New Year’s Eve in Kharkiv, snow slushed in our boots, the gang riding high on stolen cash and bottom-shelf vodka. One of the older guys shoved a wad of bills into my hand and clapped my shoulder. “Time to become a man, Maksym. We’re chipping in. Don’t argue.”
And I didn’t. Because saying no wasn’t an option. That’s just how it worked. Every boy had his turn. Every boy pretended it meant something. Brotherhood, manhood, whatever the fuck they told themselves.
I walked into that apartment like I wasn’t shaking.
Like my stomach hadn’t turned itself inside out.
She was already there, lounging like she was waiting for a shift to start.
I didn’t know her name. Didn’t ask. She looked at me once—blank—and dropped to her knees like it was a handshake.
I stood there pretending I wasn’t a terrified kid about to be initiated by someone who didn’t give a shit whether I breathed or bled.
It felt good. Physically. But not in a way that stayed. Not in a way that meant anything. There was no connection. Just a transaction dressed up as a rite of passage. When it was over, I zipped up in silence. She didn’t look at me. I didn’t look back.
That was how it started. After that, I didn’t stop. Different girls, different nights. Some I paid. Some came for free. I didn’t care, as long as no one expected me to lie. As long as no one pretended to love me.
It took years—years of fucking empty bodies and calling it intimacy—before I realized I was starving.
That I didn’t want someone who faked it because she owed me, or because she was scared.
I wanted to be chosen. I wanted someone to see me, touch me, and mean it.
But by then, the damage was done. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Between want and survival. Between being chosen and being used.
Between being human and being fucked raw by everything life ever taught me.
By the time I came back to myself, she was riding me, her back to me, like I didn’t even exist. Condom already on. Motion mechanical. Meaningless. When I finished, I grabbed her by the waist, shoved her off, and stood.
No words. No thanks.
I pulled the condom off and tossed it into the bin, then pulled my zipper up.
I lit a cigarette and walked out the door with my shirt still unbuttoned—ready to leave every inch of this shit-stained night behind.
And that’s when I saw Kira. She was curled into the corner of the couch, glass of wine poised elegantly between her fingers, one leg crossed over the other as her silk robe slid higher with each breath she took.
The second our eyes met, time pulled tight like wire around my throat.
She looked right through me. Like she could see every filthy second, every breath I wasted in that room.
Who I’d chosen to be. But I wasn’t angry or ashamed, I wasn’t even going to pretend I could be anything better.
Because I couldn’t. I was a lost cause, and it was better she knew now.
She rose with quiet precision, her movements unhurried, almost regal, and turned without a word. I watched her retreat into the hallway, the soft sweep of her robe vanishing around the corner. Let her go. It was better this way.
You can’t have her.
Even if you tried, you’d break her.
You ruin everything you touch, my father used to say. Cursed, he called me. And fuck, maybe he was right. Maybe I am. Everyone I’ve ever loved is either dead or bleeding. Everything I touch turns to rot.
If she’s sick at the sight of me, perfect. That revulsion is her shield. Pure things like Kira shouldn’t breathe the same air as what I am.
The one mercy I have left is being so fucking loathsome she’ll never come close enough to get hurt.